


May I Feel

by Luka z Rivii (wayward_dream)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sad Ending, Wall Sex, slight dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_dream/pseuds/Luka%20z%20Rivii
Summary: The heart wants what it wants, but we can't always follow our desires.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

The courtroom was stifling and Geralt was restless. He’d only been passing through, but the city guards had told him that their lord had a job for him and he would be paid handsomely. Coin purse light and interest piqued, Geralt had allowed them to escort him to court, but he’d been kept waiting while various lords and ladies spoke and discussed matters of great importance that Geralt was tuning out disinterestedly.

Suddenly a hush fell over the room and Geralt lifted his eyes as he heard the doors open with a quiet groan.

He watched you enter, escorted by an armed guard on either side. You were serene, not as pompous as the other ladies in the room – poised in an effortless sort of way, carrying yourself with your shoulders set proudly and your chin held high but without arrogance or the smug superiority he’d disdainfully come to associate with nobles.

The duke stood as you came to his side and took a seat, and at last he acknowledged Geralt, eyes scanning the room until they met his.

“I have a job for you, witcher.” The duke’s voice rang clear through the hushed room; Geralt felt the prickle of eyes scrutinizing him and raised an eyebrow calmly.

“So I’ve been told, but you’ve yet to share with me the details of said job,” Geralt replied, deliberately keeping his shoulders loose and his tone neutral. He kept his gaze on the duke, though in his periphery he saw your face turn towards him.

“My daughter’s presence has been requested by our friends to the east.” The duke looked proudly down at you as he spoke, resting a hand on your shoulder. Geralt watched you look up at him with a smile that seemed hollow before you met his gaze.

“I need to travel, but the roads are perilous.” Geralt was surprised that you spoke to him without fear or disdain, addressing him as you would any other person of the court. Still, his tone was a bit flat as he responded.

“I’m not a bodyguard for hire.”

“You’re a witcher,” you agreed. “The quickest route will take me through woods that are said to be plagued with unspeakable monsters.”

“See my daughter arrives at court safely, and I will see that you are handsomely rewarded, witcher,” the duke promised. Geralt saw you wince as his fingers tightened on your shoulders and felt his eyes narrow slightly. He had a scathing retort on the tip of his tongue when you drew in a deep breath and sat up a bit straighter.

“It’s not a job you would usually take. We were hoping, this once, you would make an exception.” The smile you gave him was small and sad, but genuine, and Geralt heard himself speak before he’d consciously made a decision.

“I’ll do it.” _Fuck._ “We leave at dawn.”

* * *

Geralt hated this contract. He was a Witcher, a hunter of monsters. Not a bodyguard.

Still, your father was paying him handsomely to escort you safely. And you weren’t the worst company he’d ever kept while working. You didn’t pester him, didn’t stare at him or prattle away or demand attention as he’d come to expect of noble ladies who looked down at him like he was a smudge of dirt staining the hem of their skirt. You were quiet, polite, and, most importantly, you listened to him when he told you to stay back, or to go ahead of him. It was gratifying, that you made his job easy.

And if it bothered him that you didn’t seem very happy, well, best he not get involved in the affairs of men (or women). He didn’t know what was troubling you, but it wasn’t his place to pry. Not his concern that you often gazed off into the distance, such deep melancholy on your face. And if the mildewy sick-sweet smell of your fear and sorrow made him itch with restless irritation, no one ever needed to know.

This wasn’t his problem, damn it. You weren’t his business.

And yet.

_And yet._

Each day the two of you shared the road, he learned more about you. You never complained, sitting in your saddle with your head held high and your shoulders squared, reeking of misery but accepting the burden as gracefully as you could manage. In spite of himself, Geralt respected you for it. He felt you deserved better, yet you didn’t act entitled or bitter. You spoke with such fondness and hope and sincerity that it made something in him ache, wondering how long it had been since he’d lost that sort of innocence.

He learned that you were your father’s only heir, so he’d always been very protective and controlling. You’d rarely had a chance to venture out, but you adored your people and he discovered that you had a fierce protective streak; you were cagey about the details, but the business he was escorting you to attend would hopefully seal an alliance that, once established, would allow you and your father to better care for your people’s needs.

He admired your practicality; the morning of your departure, you’d emerged from the castle not in elaborate skirts, but in a simple tunic and pair of trousers. At his raised eyebrow, you’d only shrugged and stated that it was practical clothing for riding and travel. He thought it was sensible, and not a decision most noble ladies would make if they were on their way to a courtly affair.

The two of you rarely spoke unless it was necessary; you were formal but polite, kind even, and Geralt….didn’t know what to make of you, didn’t know why he _cared_ , yet he found himself helping you climb over logs and his hands started to linger. His gaze was drawn to the delicate curve of your throat and his fingers itched to catch that one stubborn strand of hair falling in your face and brush it aside. He shoved the urges down with cold efficiency, forcing himself to focus.

He hated this job. When it was over he was going to collect his coin and leave you and your sad eyes behind, not allowing himself to acknowledge the twinge in his chest that it caused.

* * *

The two of you were nearly out of the dangerous terrain when things went wrong.

A wyvern came hunting. A mother, from what Geralt could tell, looking for a meal to bring to her young. She swooped from the sky and spooked your horse, who reared and knocked you to the dirt before Geralt could do anything to stop it. Your horse galloped away as the wyvern banked and started to turn back.

“Stay down!” he told you sharply. You quickly flattened yourself on the ground again, wrapped your head over your arms for some protection. He could smell your terror, hear your heart racing. He stood protectively over you, grabbed his crossbow and took aim as the creature prepared for another attack.

His first shot missed, the creature swerving nimbly at the last moment. Geralt cursed, but he didn’t have time to reload before the wyvern slammed into him. He went flying, smashed into a tree hard enough that he thought he heard a couple of ribs crack. While he was dazed the creature crouched over your trembling form.

“Run.” Geralt meant to yell, but it came out more of a wheeze. He coughed, spat out a bit of blood, and tried again. “Damn it all, _run!”_ he shouted hoarsely.

Your head shot up, eyes briefly meeting his. He glared at you, hoping you got the message to leave him and get far away as quickly as possible.

You snatched up a jagged rock from the dirt, slashing the wyvern’s foreleg with it. When it reared back with a roar, you scrambled away, stumbled to your feet and staggered a few steps before taking off in a sprint through the trees.

Geralt almost felt proud, watching you disappear: it was a smart move, the wyvern would have a harder time pursuing you through the foliage. He struggled to his feet, but the wyvern ignored him, taking to the sky again in the direction you’d fled. Geralt cursed, grabbing up his crossbow and following in hot pursuit.

He could no longer see you, but your fear was a very potent scent that allowed him to easily follow your path.

Somewhere ahead of him he heard you cry out and broke into a sprint. When he burst out of the thicket, he saw the wyvern flying away with you grasped in its talons, struggling and kicking futilely.

 _“Fuck.”_ Raising his crossbow, Geralt took a slow, deep breath until everything went still and steady. He lined up his shot and fired; it pierced the wyvern’s wing and it dropped you with a screech, whirling and diving for him.

Watching you plummet from the sky, Geralt swiftly crossed his wrists in the sign for Heliotrop to try and spare you the impact, but you still hit the ground with a heavy thud. Geralt felt as though the world tilted on its axis, lurching sickeningly like the ground had been pulled from under his feet. He wanted to run to you, make sure you were alive, but the wyvern dove, landing far more gracefully than you had despite its injured wing.

The great beast reared with an enraged shriek, blocking his path. He felt sick, let loose an answering roar of his own and fired off more shots from his crossbow until he ran out of bolts. The beast was staggering and weakened, and he drew his sword to finish it off. As he approached it, the wyvern lunged at him, talons lacerating his chest and large jaws snapping, barely missing his face when he jerked back at the last moment. He breathed harshly as its putrid breath wafted over his face and plunged his silver sword into the beast’s great chest. Its enraged wailing made his ears ring, left him with a splitting headache, but it was worth it to see the wyvern collapse on the ground in a heap, going still after a few final dying breaths.

Geralt leapt over the corpse and raced to you, skidding to his knees at your side.

You were face down in the dirt, unmoving. Geralt couldn’t hear your heartbeat over the roaring sound in his head, couldn’t tell if you were breathing. He spit out a slew of curses as he spotted the pool of blood slowly growing under you, gently turning you onto your side.

You whimpered quietly, eyelids flickering but remaining closed. The sound was like sweet music to Geralt. It meant you were still alive, and he’d make damn sure you were going to stay that way.

Geralt cut several strips off the bottom of his shirt; it was already ruined anyways, shredded and stained with blood and dirt, and he needed to staunch the bleeding as quickly as possible. Working swiftly, Geralt folded two of the strips into pads and pressed them over the gashes that tore your ribcage open. He lifted you slightly with one hand so he could wind the remaining strips around your midsection. Your head flopped back like a rag doll and seeing you so unresponsive made him feel ill.

It was as he was tying off the makeshift bandaging that he realized something about your blood smelled….off. Leaning over you, he brought his face near to your stomach where blood was drying on your skin, breathed in the scent deeply.

There. Underneath the sharp copper tang of blood, he detected a faint whiff of poison. The damned wyvern must have caught you with its teeth, envenomizing you. He’d need an antidote, and quickly, or you weren’t going to make it.

Geralt ran back to where he’d dropped his pack and sword, gathering his possessions and sheathing the sword across his back once more before returning to you. He fished a vial out of his pack; it was a gamble, giving you one of his potions, but he needed something to stave off the effects of the toxin until he could get you to the nearest healer. 

He ripped the cork out with his teeth, lifted your head slightly and pressed the vial to your lips.

The liquid spilled over and out of your mouth, trickling down your throat. Geralt swore, laid your head on his thigh and pinched your nose, trying again. This time you swallowed, and Geralt stoppered the vial, shoving it back into his pack before scooping you into his arms with little effort.

He prayed to whatever god might bother to listen to him that he would be fast enough.

* * *

It took longer than he was happy with to find Roach and get to town, but he was fortunate to find a healer relatively quickly. He told her a brief recount of what had happened so she would know how to treat you before he was escorted out so that she could focus on treating you.

Geralt paced back and forth outside the door, restless and irritable, for several minutes.

Why was he so angry? Yes, he was being paid to protect you and things hadn’t gone according to plan, but you were being healed. You were going to be fine. These reactions weren’t rational and he couldn’t explain it to himself.

Geralt stopped pacing abruptly, sat on the floor in the hall next to the door with his back to the wall, and closed his eyes. He drew in a breath until his lungs ached, then exhaled slowly. He slowly settled, time going still and everything going quiet until he was aware only of his own breathing.

He remained in that meditative state until the sound of the door opening stirred him back to awareness.

He opened his eyes and came to his feet, looking expectantly at the healer. She offered a timid smile. “She’s going to be fine. She needs rest, but you can go in and see her for a few minutes if you’d like.”

Geralt kept his face neutral, didn’t let the dizzying relief that swept through him show on his face. He only nodded his thanks curtly and stepped past her into your room.

You were sitting up on a cot, looking a little dazed and pale, but otherwise much better. They’d cleaned the dirt and blood off of you and changed you into a plain shift. Geralt stood just inside the threshold, watching you silently. You turned to look at him and offered a wan smile.

“Geralt,” you murmured. “I suppose I have you to thank for the fact that I’m still alive.”

“Only doing my job,” Geralt muttered. He didn’t say that you’d only been injured because he’d agreed to take this job and escort you through such a dangerous area. He didn’t need to place the burden of his guilt on your shoulders.

You rested a hand over your ribs absently. “You’re not being paid enough, dealing with beasts like those.” Geralt watched you sharply, observed the small shivers that made you tremble; he noted, however, that your heartbeat was steady, and your scent was free of any odor of fear or anger. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“Are you in pain?” he settled for asking instead.

You shook your head. “They gave me some medicine; I’m well enough.” He watched your eyes drift down to his torso, where the wyvern’s claws had shredded through his shirt. His own cuts had already scabbed over and were healing rapidly, he knew it was nothing to be concerned over.

“You’re injured.”

Geralt shrugged dismissively. “Just a few scratches. What injuries did you sustain?”

“They said it’s going to take a day or so for my system to completely flush out the poison, and they had to stitch the gashes on my ribs shut. A couple of my ribs fractured, but nothing broken. They think I might have a minor concussion, so they’re going to keep me here overnight to monitor me.” He noted that you didn’t mention the scrapes and bruises all over your arms and face, as though they weren’t even worth mentioning. His respect for you went up a few notches.

Covered as you were by the shift, Geralt couldn’t see your injuries for himself, couldn’t verify how well they’d taken care of you, and it made him restless. “That will delay our travel at least two days,” he muttered. His eyes snapped up to you when a tendril of relief threaded through your scent, almost happiness. You flushed slightly and ducked your head, dropping your gaze down to your fingers twisted around the sheet over your legs.

“I’m sorry; I know you’re eager to have this job over with, but I’m…happy to delay the inevitable just a bit longer,” you told him without looking up. Geralt frowned at you, and the silence stretched on for a tense minute.

“Geralt–” you began.

“Would it be alright–” Geralt asked at the same time. Both of you paused, your eyes lifting to his once more. You gestured for him to continue, eyes curious. He shook his head, suddenly uncomfortable with what he wanted, needed from you but had no right to ask for.

You touched his arm gently. “What is it? You can tell me.”

Geralt stared at your fingers resting on his arm. Breathed in deep but all he could smell in this room was soap and medicine that overpowered everything else. A growl escaped before he could restrain it. He was surprised when you didn’t flinch or shy away. Your fingers squeezed his wrist a bit and Geralt sighed in irritation.

“I can’t see your injuries and I can’t _smell_ anything in this damned room, and it’s driving me mad,” he said through his teeth. You tilted your head at him, and Geralt hated how needy and demanding he felt, wanted to bite off his own tongue and recant his words.

“Are you doubting the healer’s prowess?” you asked curiously.

Geralt made a face. “Not at all. But part of me keeps seeing you fall from the sky and lying unconscious on the ground and would feel better if I could verify for myself that you are alright.” He didn’t feel comfortable being so….open, but the itch beneath his skin demanded that he inspect your injuries himself and he was going to go mad if he didn’t do _something_ to sate that need.

You flushed slightly, and underneath his restless irritation he was puzzled when you smiled, small and soft, at him. “What?”

“You’re worried for me?” you asked hopefully. Something in him squirmed and he viciously tried to push it back down, but it was too late; he’d gone and gotten attached and now there was no helping it, he _felt_ for you. Gods have mercy on him. His fingers flexed before curling into a fist on his thigh, and your eyes darted down to capture the movement. He shrugged one shoulder in answer to your question and wished he couldn’t hear your heartbeat start to quicken.

“Would you feel better if you could see my stitching?” you asked. Geralt nodded sharply, not entirely sure it was true but needing it nonetheless.

He refused to find it pleasing when your face flushed, kept his eyes firmly on your face as you fiddled with the sheet, ensuring it stayed covering your lower half as you tugged the bottom of your shift. The hem slid up, revealing the smooth expanse of your stomach, then the angry marring of cuts held shut by neat black threads, bruises and scrapes littering your skin. You gathered the material in your arms and hugged it to your chest, trying to preserve a sense of modesty. Geralt exhaled harshly through his nose, his hand moving without his permission but stopping before it actually brushed against your skin. His eyes flickered up to yours, seeking; took in your bitten lip, the slight dilation of your pupils.

His voice came out quiet. “May I?” Almost shyly, you nodded. His hand slid onto your skin, calloused fingers following the prickle of stitches and tender flesh. He watched his fingers skim across your ribs with a feather-light touch, something hungry in him stirring when he saw goosebumps break out across your skin. “Am I causing you pain?” he asked.

“N-no,” you breathed back. His eyes darted back up to yours and you met his gaze, bashful but not afraid.

“Do you want me to stop?” The words tumbled past his lips without his permission.

“No,” you said again, just a bit breathless. He could feel the thrum of your pulse under your skin as he traced your ribs, and when he looked up there was an unspoken question burning in your eyes.

Geralt’s answer was to lean in until his breath brushed against your mouth. He heard the quiet hitch of your breath before you closed the gap, catching his lips in a slow and gentle kiss that seemed to steal all the breath from his lungs. His fingers tightened on your ribs, immediately easing when he felt you go tense. 

“Sorry,” he breathed the word into your mouth, gently catching your lower lip between his teeth before soothing it by tracing his tongue along the faint indents. You gasped quietly and went rigid, abruptly wrenching away from him and covering your mouth with your hands. Geralt stared at you, bewildered and dismayed to see tears gathering in your eyes. “What–?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered behind your hands. “This….I can’t….I can’t do this with you.”

Something cold and angry knotted under Geralt’s ribs, settling like a stone in his stomach. “Because I’m a witcher, a mutant freak? You can’t do this with the Butcher of Blaviken?” His tone was harsh to conceal the bitter sting your rejection caused in him.

You touched his cheek gently, shaking your head. “That’s not why. I promise you, none of that matters to me.”

Geralt snorted derisively. “Then what?”

“This can’t happen because I’m already promised to another,” you told him sadly, a few tears spilling over to fall down your cheeks. “You’ve been escorting me to meet my betrothed, Geralt.”


	2. Chapter 2

The banquet was elaborate, the food sumptuous and the wine crisp and flowing freely. The music left something to be desired, and the company was…lacklustre. But you’d spent hours cleaning up and choosing a dress with the help of the handmaid assigned to you, and your betrothed had been quite taken with your beauty.

You exchanged all the necessary pleasantries and answered all questions patiently and politely, putting on your most gracious smile.

And you fought so hard not to let your eyes wander to the corner where you’d last seen Geralt, brooding gaze boring into you over a cup of wine he was nursing.

As the evening wore on and you began to grow weary, you leaned in to speak to your fiancè, resting a hand on his arm. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’d like to step out for a few moments and get some fresh air.” His eyes met yours and he nodded, smiling.

“Don’t be gone too long, this party is all for you, after all,” he told you grandly. You smiled but it felt hollow. He didn’t love you, he only thought you were beautiful. Still, he at least seemed kind and you thought that it could be worse.

As you stood, your eyes briefly flickered to the corner with the thought that maybe it could also be _better_. But Geralt was no longer there, had probably been gone for a while. It made your heart throb, but you shook your head and continued out the doors. It was for the best – no ues torturing yourself, pining for what could never be.

You were so lost in your thoughts as you wandered the halls that you didn’t notice you were being followed until a pair of hands grabbed onto you, yanking you down a dim side corridor. You had a scream on your lips before you recognized the amber eyes staring at you intently.

“Geralt,” you gasped, resting a hand over your heart. “You startled me.”

“My apologies. You’ve been so busy being fawned over by your fiancè, we haven’t had a chance to talk.” His tone was biting and you winced.

“What is there to say?” you asked, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded.

“I have to,” you whispered.

“You’re not even married and you’re already miserable with him; you smiled more with me traveling through wyvern-infested woods than you have in several hours with your husband to be,” Geralt pointed out. “You don’t want to do this, the very prospect makes you miserable. Don’t deny it, I could smell it on you. You hate this, so why are you going through with it?”

You closed your eyes. “That doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t believe that.” You forced your eyes open to see him staring at you intently. You gave him a sad smile, clasping your hands in front of you. “I have to. It’s the only way I can be…at peace with this.”

“But you _don’t_ ,” he insisted, stepping closer. “You don’t have to do any of this if you don’t want to. I won’t let them force you into something you aren’t willing to do–”

“Who said it was unwilling?” you interrupted quietly and he froze; you heard his teeth click together as his jaw snapped shut, muscle ticking as he clenched his teeth. “Geralt, this engagement was my idea.”

“He doesn’t make you happy. You don’t love him.”

“People like me don’t marry for love,” you said with a wistful smile. “That’s the stuff of fairy tales, for little girls who don’t have kingdoms to worry about.”

Geralt’s face twisted, and you weren’t sure if it was rage or sorrow but even as the unhappiness in his expression made you ache, it warmed you to think he cared so much. He stepped in close, cradled your face in his hands as he spoke quietly. “Whoever came up with the rule that you have to sacrifice your happiness for everyone else’s can go hang themselves,” he declared quietly as he loomed over you, close enough you could taste his breaths on your tongue as he exhaled.

“Don’t do this,” you quietly begged him, even as your hands slid up to hold onto his shoulders.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he asked, one hand on your waist drawing you closer, the other cupping your face, tipping it up towards him gently.

“I’ll….I’ll cry out. Call for the guards,” you said desperately. You feared if he kissed you again, it might break your resolve to go through with this betrothal.

“Hm. Will you really?” he asked, with a dark and bitter smirk. Before you could respond his lips claimed yours, stealing your breath and your will as soon as his mouth met yours.

It wasn’t like your previous kiss. This was carnal, hungry, rough and demanding, leaving you weak in the knees. You felt the hard stone wall against your back and then Geralt was pressed against your front, all warm solid muscle and oh, oh you could feel how he wanted you, his arousal pressed firmly against your hips. A weak moan slid from your lips and he bit your lip reprimandingly.

“Quiet now, dove,” he commanded.

“Geralt–” you whimpered, fisting your fingers into his shirt. You gasped as his hand clamped over your mouth, looking at him with wide eyes.

“I said to keep quiet. Wouldn’t want your _betrothed_ to see this,” he murmured scathingly, his free hand dragging your skirt up and bunching it around your hips, pressing flush against your core, his trousers and your panties the only barriers and you whimpered against his hand. He shushed you quietly, pressed his lips to your ear and spoke in a bassy growl. “You can’t hide from me, love – I know you want this. Want me. I can _smell_ your desire building, the arousal starting to pool between your legs.”

He ground against you and you moaned softly, starting to tremble. He chuckled darkly. “You may be promised to him, but you want to be _mine_.” He tugged your panties down your to your knees and you shuddered as the cool air met your slickening core. “Let me give you that.” You heard a quiet zip and the rustle of fabric and you looked down to see that he’d undone his trousers enough to have his cock out. “Let me feel you.”

“We c-can’t–” you whispered against his hand.

“We can,” he insisted, kissed you deeply until you were boneless against him. “May I feel you?” he murmured against your lips, and you dazedly nodded.

He grabbed your leg and hitched it around his hip as he pushed into you. Your head thunked back against the wall as you whimpered his name and he shushed you. “Keep quiet, dove,” he commanded breathlessly.

You shuddered and he rested his forehead against yours, staying still as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you, thumb rubbing back and forth on your skin soothingly. Gradually you relaxed and he pressed a kiss to the bolt of your jaw.

“Can I move?” he asked quietly and you hummed softly, nodding, curling your fingers into his hair.

He kept his thrusts shallow to let you get used to it and you tugged on his hair, pulling him close to speak softly near his ear. “You feel so good,” you whispered. “I love you, Geralt.”

He went stiff and still when you spoke before his thrusts became faster, more erratic, and you whimpered, burying your face against the side of his neck to muffle the sounds of your moans.

“G-Geralt,” you gasped against his skin, digging your fingers in where you clutched at him, one hand buried in his hair and the other latched onto his shoulder hard enough it would bruise him were he human. You felt overheated, the arousal in your gut building until the anticipation was almost painful.

“Shh, I know. Relax, dove,” he urged, and you whined as he started to slow down. He hushed you, kissed the side of your temple and his hand strayed from your hip, fingers dipping into your slick folds and oh _fuck,_ he was circling your clit as he changed his angle for deeper, slow thrusts that had you scrabbling at him, moaning until he clamped a hand over your mouth to muffle you. You didn’t last long, and as you clamped around him he followed you over the edge, his hot seed spurting inside you and down your thighs slowly.

Geralt panted, resting his forehead against yours, and you breathed heavily through your nose, reaching up to gently tug at his hand. The corners of his lip quirked up slightly and he allowed you to pry his hand away from your mouth. You didn’t move it far, holding it gently against your cheek as you looked at him from under your lashes.

“I wish things were different,” you whispered. You felt him go stiff as tears gathered in your eyes and spilled down your cheeks. “I love you, I do. But this isn’t about just me. My people are starving, Geralt, and we don’t have the resources we need to fix it. This engagement will unite our two fiefdoms and then my people will be saved.” You bit your lip, stroking your thumb gently along the line of his cheekbone. His eyes shut as he leaned into the touch and you sniffed. “I love you, but I also love my people, and they need me to do this. I hope you understand, and I pray you can forgive me.”

He opened his mouth to reply but you weren’t sure you could bear whatever he had to say, so you silenced him with a brief, chaste kiss, closing your eyes. When you pulled back and opened them again, his face was closed off. He stroked a few of your tears away.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

Your heart splintered in your chest. “I know. I’m sorry.” You squirmed, disentangling yourself and straightening your clothes. You avoided his eyes. “I should go back to the banquet, they’ll be wondering where I am.”

Geralt didn’t answer and you turned away, leaving your heart with him in that dark secluded hall as you returned to your betrothed.


End file.
